That Pyro
by Solud Snak
Summary: The Pyro isn't feeling right. This is my first Fanfiction, and it's kind of experimental, so bare with me, I get confused easily. Rated T, because I have no idea how the rating works.
1. Intro

Scout strolled into the BLU base, grinning and full of himself. He was talking to the Heavy, but he might as well have been talking to a Russian wall for all the response he was getting.

"And so I said to HIM, birds fly, sun shines, grass grows, and brotha… I HURT people! HAHAHAHA"

Looking up, Scout hopped up and down, bursting with pride at his witty rhetoric.

Heavy felt as though he had to say something, but he hadn't really been listening. Scout talked too fast and loud for the formidable bear of a man.

"Very good, Scout. Scout is clever."

"I know! Tell me about it! Wait, no, because I already know. YEAH. Yo wassup?"

Tavish DeGroot, the resident demolitions expert passed them on the stairs. He didn't stop to chat, mainly because he was falling head first down the afore-mentioned stairs, but also because he was extremely intoxicated.

"Ah gotha raman tae gurbluturrr" He managed to get out before ending his trajectory at the bottom of the dusty stairs.

"Cheers buddy!" Scout said, taking the drunken mumbling as high praise.

The two blue-clad mercenaries entered the recreation room, one dragging a 2 lb. titanium bat, the other cradling a 90-pound minigun affectionately.

"Welp, nice talkin' to ya bud!" Spouted the obnoxious Bostonian, before prancing out the room. On the way he bashed in a few imaginary RED heads with his weapon, crowing "BOINK" with every swing.

"Goodnight Sasha. Sleep well. Don't let bedbugs chew. Haha!"

Heavy enjoyed being alone; it made a change from all the fighting. He was a man of simple tastes. Big guns, sandwiches, and boxing. "Da." He thought, as he tucked up his large gun. "Life. It is good."

He wandered into the little cubicle he called home, pressed the light switch on with one sausage sized finger, and sat down on his specially reinforced bed. No ordinary bed would take the large man's weight.

Two hours later, all the lights were out.

Heavy dreamed of a Russian woman back home, forgotten from many years of fighting, only alive in his subconscious mind.

The Soldier dreamt of Nazis and planes, eagles and robots.

The Demoman lay in a stupor next to his bed, contemplating the meaning of his very existence.

The Sniper took a piss. From his bed. Years of peeing into jars gives you exceptional aim, and he managed to direct it straight into the Scout's half empty can of Bonk! Atomic Punch.

The Scout twitched side to side, dreaming of the perfect dispenser placement point.

The Spy dreamt he was flying. Flying far away with a lady he loved. If you were listening, you would have heard him mumble "Petite Chou-fleur" before smiling and turning over.

The Medic had nightmares in which he sewed Archimedes into different Merc's bodies.

The Engineer slept under the stars in the warm dustbowl. He had the familiar _beep… beep… beep… _of a small gun to keep him company.

The Pyro had no dreams. The Pyro stayed awake. The Pyro cried, and no-one heard.


	2. That Pyro

"ALERT. A RED SPY IS IN THE BASE."

"A RED spy is in the base!" Yelled the Soldier, just in case nobody had heard the ear shattering announcement. He then jumped into the air, and at the height of his arc fired one of his few remaining rockets at the floor below him. It would have been a text book rocket jump, if he wasn't on 2 HP. A bit of soldier hit the Sniper in the face.

"Crap!" Respawn was disorientating every time it happened, but at least you weren't dead. It worked so that every molecule in the unfortunate Merc's body was cloned. It was replicated down to the last electrical impulse in your brain, right until you died. Every time you respawned you could remember everything that had happened right up until you exploded into little giblets. To the subject, respawn happened instantly, however in reality the whole process of duplication takes about 15 seconds, giving your team a distinct disadvantage for that time period.

With the most patriotic scream he could muster, the soldier picked up his weapons and charged out of the supply room, heading for the intelligence. On his way the Pyro passed, outrunning the helmeted man easily, even with his full body asbestos lined suit and heavy flamethrower. The Soldier stopped to catch his breath, and called after the masked merc.

"Go get that God damn Frenchy! Make that French fry!"

No, the humour wasn't intentional. The soldier didn't have enough brain cells left to comprehend humour. The only joke he knew went something along the lines of-

"Knock knock"

"Who's there"

"A robot! Beep boop!"

"A robot wh-"

"DON'T BE RIDICULOUS. I AM NOT A ROBOT. I AM A MAN."

The soldier wasn't the most popular of the mercs at mealtimes to say the least. At least the Pyro could hold a spoon properly instead of interrogating it on its country of origin until the soup had gone cold.

Back in the battle, the walkie talkies all the mercs had attached to their ears was suddenly graced by the Soldier's dulcet tones giving the mercs an update of the Pyro going to get the spy. A mumble of acknowledgement followed from most.

The Pyro ran on, shifting the weight of the flamethrower in gloved hands. A rasp of breathing created a steady rhythm in time with the heavy _clump clump _of large, soot-stained boots.

"Gotcha, ya bloody fruit shop owner…" It was a good day to be the Sniper. He was in the zone, in which nothing mattered but the heads of his opponents. He scanned the map, and noticed the blue shirt of his team mate- the Scout.

Scout was buzzing. Literally. The amount of caffeine he had consumed today was five times the amount any insane person would drink. He could see sounds. He skipped from rooftop to ledge, humming along to the music he had instead of the whining of his teammates. He paused a moment to survey the carnage he had left, and was distracted from his happy reverie by a scream of pain. It sounded like the Australian. He glanced up, and saw a gloved hand- Sniper's- flop out of the window clutching a kukri. He heard the malevolent chuckle of a man who had just done a good job. He knew his next target. RED spy had it coming.

"Eighty percent! Jawohl!"

"Da! Good work doktor!"

The inseparable duo slowly made their way across the rotting bridge. Planks creaked beneath the combined weight, and the Medic glanced down nervously.

A knife that enters more than ten centimetres into anyone's body is one intending to do damage. The Medic died from internal bleeding and a collapsed lung. He died almost instantly.

"Medic?"

"I'm afraid not."

A bullet to the head is also effective.

"THEY HAVE CAPTURED OUR INTELLIGENCE."

"Dag nab it"

Today had started so well for the mild mannered Texan who these days just went by the title "The Engineer", but things had started to fall apart, and it felt as though they were just one man down the entire time. Nobody had eagerly been protecting his sentry nest from the damn French man, nobody had separated the enemy Medic from his ubercharged teammates, nobody had been there to instantly distinguish fires.

Someone needed to talk to that Pyro.


End file.
